STROKED (The Stroked Series Book 1)

  “Bellini—”

  I hold up my hand to stop her.

  “I suggest you keep that double-dealing, dick-sucking mouth of yours shut. Got it?” She nods, her hands twisting in front of her. “I’m going to give you two options here. Both benefit me and both shank you in the ass with a shiv.” I don’t give her a chance to respond and continue on. “First option: you can leave right now, pack your pathetic, ratty-old bags and sit in the airport for a flight back home, quit your job and never lay eyes on Reese or me again. Second option: you can try to stay, sit around with production, sucking on Jasper’s butt like you’ve been doing for the past month or so while I go to the press and tell everyone how Reese is a lying, cheating sack of scum, destroying that precious little image he’s been trying to build up by doing this show.”

  Her eyes immediately water up, trying to gather some kind of sympathy from me, but little does she know I have zero empathy for people who lie, cheat, and make a mockery of themselves. Plus, it’s fun messing with her. I know Pope Francis would be okay with it . . . I hope.

  “So what’s it going to be?”

  She wavers on what to do but then asks, “If I leave you won’t do anything to Reese?”

  “Nope.” I smile at her. “Why would I want to spoil his chance at gold? Plus, I do have a show to worry about. However, I’m willing to give that all up if you try to stick around. Honestly, you’ve been a flesh-eating virus since you arrived, and I’m done.”

  “Okay,” she says on a heavy breath. “I’ll leave.”

  “Smart choice, now hand me your phone.”

  “Why?” she asks, pulling her purse to the side.

  “Because, why would I want you texting or calling Reese to tell him what’s going on? Give me your phone. It’s time to delete everything and block his number.”

  “You can’t do that.” She pulls away some more.

  “Fine.” I shrug my shoulders. “I will just go talk to NBC right now; you know Matt Lauer will salivate over this story. The underdog is really just a stupid piece of crap who doesn’t deserve a gold. Knowing me, I can cause enough of a mess to have Reese disqualified. I know people.”

  Her eyes water some more, causing me to roll mine. Enough with the dramatics already. Reluctantly, she hands me her phone and I go through it, sneering at the disgusting texts they’ve sent each other, deleting everything and blocking his number. My work here is done.

  Handing her the phone back, I look her up and down and say, “Now beat it, you garbage can. I don’t want to see you again.”

  With her head down, a slump in her shoulders, as if she’s an ape—gross—she walks away and out of my life. This day just got a whole hell of a lot better.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  **REESE**

  “Open this fucking door, Reese.” Hollis’s voice echoes through the hallway of the athlete dorms, his fist pounding an incessant storm of rage. “I swear to God, if you don’t open up, I’m going to,” he pauses as if he’s trying to think about what he’s going to do, “I’m going to call the hall monitor person.”

  Clever.

  It’s been a good five minutes of Hollis pounding on my door, and you would think he would get the idea I don’t want to talk to him, but the little punk is insistent.

  “Reese, if I break my hand and can’t compete, I’m blaming you. America will hate you. I will go around to every news station to let them know them what kind of pussy—”

  He’s cut off before he can even finish as I whip the door open. We are about the same height, but the rage boiling inside me puts me at a greater advantage.

  Seething, I spit out, “What the fuck do you want?”

  Inviting himself in, not even bothering for me to step aside, he pushes past my strong build and sits on my bed, crossing his leg over his knee and striking a casual pose. “You plan on coming down to the pool this evening? You know, for your final race of your career?”

  Shutting the door so no one can hear my business, I say, “What’s the fucking point? We all know how it’s going to end. I might as well just go stand on the second podium and hold my hand out for the silver.”

  The past few days have been hell, not just because I’ve been living up to every announcer and media outlet’s expectations of securing the silver for my past two races, but because Paisley has disappeared off the face of this earth. Melony informed me that Paisley checked out of their room without a word. Of course I went straight to my phone to contact her, but for some reason I haven’t been able to get through. Melony has tried calling her, but no one can reach her.

  Not only am I terrified something has happened to her, but I’m also terrified she’s cutting me out of her life, which of course has destroyed my mental game, pretty much crumbled it right on the spot. Leaving me with two silvers, one I was barely able to snag, literally by a fingernail’s length.

  “I’m kind of over this woe is me shit,” Hollis says. “Dude, you have one race left in your career and all you can think about is Paisley.”

  My phone rings, halting me from answering Hollis. Frantically, I take a look at my phone and see it’s Bellini, calling me for the twelfth time in the last half hour.

  I rub my hand over my face, exhausted already from the conversation I’m about to have. Hitting the green button, I answer, “What do you need?”

  “It’s about time you popped your head out of that muddled, disease-ridden vat of water to answer my call. Don’t you realize I’m important people and when I call, you expunge yourself from whatever nonsensical shit you’re doing and you speak to me?”

  Exhaling, I reply, “Just get to the point.”

  “I’m going to need your publicist to bring me a package of Fiji water. I’m out.”

  Pausing my hand running over my face, I grit out, “You called me because you want my publicist to run some asinine errand for you? Isn’t that why you have an assistant?”

  “That’s beside the point. I need the water.”

  “Well, get it yourself. Ashley doesn’t run errands.”

  Whining, she says, “Reese, I’m thirsty and Mauve isn’t . . .” She pauses and clears her throat, “I mean, I have no one to fetch my things.”

  My hackles rise from Bellini’s misstep. Without even thinking, I ask, “Where’s Paisley?”

  “Probably not brushing her hair somewhere.”

  “Bellini,” I snap. “Where is she?”

  “Why do you even care?”

  “I’m not in the mood for your games, Bellini, just tell me where Paisley is.”

  “Why? Because you want to screw her in another broom closet?” she asks, a mixture of menace and sadness in her voice.

  Shit.

  Sighing, I sit down on my bed next to Hollis and cradle my forehead in my hand. “Bellini—”

  “Yeah, I know, Reese. I know you’re been sticking your dick in that dumpster of a vagina. Not only is it completely and utterly revolting for me to think of you stooping so low as to have sex with the hired help, who frankly looks like they just crawled off the body of one of those tattoo freaks from Sons of Anarchy, but it’s despicable you would even consider having sex before marriage. Have you no respect for yourself?”

  “You know what, Bellini? I could really give zero fucks about your opinion, so you can either tell me where the hell Paisley is, or I can take this sham of a relationship to the media and out us. I have no problem handling the repercussions. At this point, I have nothing to lose.”

  “You wouldn’t.” A high-pitched squeal breaks through the phone, causing me to temporarily pull the phone away from my ear. I turn to Hollis who mouths, “Holy fuck.” A small laugh comes out of me from the terrified look on his face. He hasn’t had much interaction with Bellini, so this temper tantrum is startling to him. To me, it’s an everyday occurrence.

  “Bellini, there is nothing I wouldn’t do right about now, so don’t fucking test me. What happened to Paisley?”

  Screeching some more and pounding on somethin
g on the other end of the phone, she finally says, “You’re infuriating.”

  “Answer the goddamn question, Bellini.”

  Huffing she says, “I gave her an ultimatum, both resulting in her disappearance. You should know you brainwashed her sufficiently that she chose the one that helped you out, the one that didn’t make you look like a fool. But, that meant I blocked your number in her phone. Genius on my end, really.”

  “We’re done,” I snap, enraged. “We are so fucking done, Bellini. You’ve gone too far.”

  “I’ve gone too far? You’re the one poking people with your penis behind my back. I was just saving the sanctity of our relationship.”

  “There is no relationship,” I yell. “We have nothing, Bellini. I can barely stand to look at you, let alone be in the same room. I’m not kidding when I say we’re done. Better prepare for a shitstorm, because by the time I’m done with you, you’re going to be begging you picked someone else to fuck around with.”

  Without even waiting for a response, I hang up the phone and toss it, only to grab the ends of my hair and pull.

  “That seemed like a fun conversation,” Hollis says after a bout of silence.

  “Fuck!” I yell, pulling hard on my hair. “I need to go find her.”

  “Find who?” Hollis asks as I get up from the bed and start packing a bag.

  “Paisley.”

  Immediately, my arms are halted and I’m pushed away from the bag. “Are you fucking insane?” Hollis asks. “Reese, you have a race tonight.”

  “I know that, dipshit, but do you really think I’ll be able to concentrate on it with Paisley on my mind? I mean . . . shit, what the hell is going through her mind right now? Is she in her apartment by herself, without a job?” The mere thought makes me sick to my stomach.

  “Probably,” Hollis says, not sugarcoating it for me. “She’s most definitely at home, by herself, most likely crying, and jobless, but that doesn’t change anything. You still have a race tonight, and you would be one fucking selfish bastard if you didn’t compete.”

  “Selfish? How the hell would I be selfish?”

  Hollis comes up to me, toe to toe, and gets in my face, not letting up on his speech. “You’re not the only one invested in your career, Reese. Coach Fern has been with you from the very beginning. It would be a slap in the face to not let him watch you swim one last race. It would be a slap in the face to your family, your fans, the people who’ve stuck by you through thick and thin.” Hollis swallows hard. “It would fucking kill me not to watch you compete one last time. There is nothing you can do about Paisley right now. You’d probably wait at the airport until a flight became available. You owe it to yourself, to your competition, to everyone in the fucking arena, to show up and do one last swim. It’s one hundred meters, Reese. One last time, prove to everyone that you are the Olympic gold-medal swimmer you were trained to be. Don’t cop out now because you’re scared of the end result.”

  “I’m not copping out,” I answer, not even believing myself.

  “You are.” Hollis grips my shoulder, squeezing it tight. “You’re scared of being disappointed one last time, and yes, you’re worried about Paisley, but you are using her as an excuse. Don’t do that. You’ve worked so fucking hard to get to where you are now. Go out there, cover your eyes with your goggles, and swim the fuck out of your freestyle one last time. You’re meant to be a gold medalist, Reese, and this is it.”

  My stomach is tied in knots as I think through what Hollis is saying. Do I have one more race left in me?

  Hollis must notice the indecision on my face, because he says, “This is it, old man. You have nothing to lose. Go out there, balls to the wall, and swim like the motherfucking gold medalist I know you are.”

  Fuck, I hate that he’s right.

  “Afterward, I will help get you back to the States to figure out the Paisley thing, but right now, do this for me, for your fans, for your coach, for your family, but most importantly for yourself. You deserve this, Reese, now go collect your medal.”

  ***

  “Kill it, man,” Bodi says right before I walk out of the locker room.

  The 100-meter freestyle is the only race Bodi isn’t racing with me during the Olympics; it’s not his best race so he doesn’t compete.

  I nod at him in acknowledgement and follow the other swimmers to the pool deck where the cheering crowd waits for us. The venue is packed to the brim. It’s so loud I can barely hear the negative talk inside my head, trying to bring me down.

  Despite the pep talk Hollis gave me in my dorm, I still can’t seem to shake the thought of this race being pointless. Throughout the last sixteen years, I’ve spent countless hours in the pool and the gym, and this is it. One race. For the life of me, I can’t overcome the feeling that I’m once again going to pull silver.

  Maybe that’s who I really am. I’m The Silver Stroke. If anything, I will go down in history as the biggest choke artist in Olympic history. Any other race, whether it’s a national championship or a collegiate race, I’ve won gold. I have countless medals in my house boasting the talent I was blessed with, letting the world know I’m not just a B-swimmer, I’m a motherfucking A-swimmer, one to reckon with. But when it counts, when it comes down to the biggest race of my life, I’ve never been able to cash in. And I’m feeling it’s going to be the same thing now.

  Lights flash around the stadium as I come into view. I’m not wearing my usual swim parka, and I’ve chosen to nix the earphones this go around. There is not one single song that will do my last race justice, so instead, I choose to listen to the crowd, to soak in this last moment, despite the war raging inside me.

  As the other swimmers get ready by shaking their arms, moving their heads side to side, listening to their music, I rest my hands on my hips and look around the venue. There is not a single empty seat in the stadium, and viewers from around the world are watching with anticipation. Every pre-race ritual I’ve ever had vanishes as I continue to absorb every last feeling, every last noise, every last smell.

  In the distance, I can hear the announcer call out the swimmers and their lanes, which has the crowd roaring with appreciation for their favorite to win.

  “In lane four, from the United States of America, Reese King.” The announcers voice echoes through my ears but is quickly washed away by the overwhelming roar of the crowd.

  It’s deafening.

  A camera is spotlighted on me from below, trying to capture my reaction for folks watching at home. Normally it wouldn’t bother me but the minute the entire venue starts chanting my name, covering up the voice of the announcer, emotions hit.

  My throat clogs and my eyes star to water. In the stands, there are American flags waving frantically, signs with my name on them, and loyal fans screaming “Reese” at the top of their lungs.

  This race isn’t for me anymore. This race is for them. This race is for the man who’s stood by my side from the very beginning, for my family who toted me around to various pools for meets and practices, for my teammates who’ve always had faith in for me . . . for Paisley who captured my heart the moment she stepped foot on set.

  Fuck Bellini, fuck the drama, and fuck everything else. This is my last race—my last chance—and to hell if I’m going to let anything get in the way of me enjoying it.

  The feeling of being twelve once again, barely filling my Speedo, overcomes me as I step up on the diving block. Who cares about form, about stroke count, about time? I’m going to swim this race as if a sea monster is chasing me, like I used to . . . one last fucking time.

  Snapping my goggles in place, I adjust my swim cap and get into position. Excitement courses through me as I close my eyes and envision the sea creature that used to chase me so many years ago.

  One last go.

  One last chase.

  One last race.

  “Take your mark.” I lift my backside, applying my weight to my legs and while the venue quiets down, I listen carefully.

  B
eep.

  The instant the sound flows through me, the crowd erupts as my body goes under water. Like a fucking bat out of hell, I kick my way through my dive and surface, not bothering to even notice the men swimming next to me. I’m completely focused on the monster behind me, nipping at my toes and trying to get as far away from him as possible.

  Before I know it, I’m at the turn, working my away back on the home stretch. It’s a fast race, one that only lasts a few seconds, but while you’re in it, trudging through the water, it seems like hours.

  My feet kick rapidly, my heart pounds quickly in my chest, and my arms fly over me, stroke after stroke. Below me is the pool’s black line, letting me know how straight I’m swimming and if I’m staying on course. As the “T” of the pool comes closer, I give one last surge—everything left inside me—as I kick and stroke right into the wall, my fingertips slamming into the wall, nearly snapping them in half.

  In what feels like slow motion, I turn around to look up at the scoreboard as the venue nearly crumbles from cheers. Through my goggles, I look at second place on the scoreboard and I’m disappointed when King doesn’t come up. My heart falls and my stomach bottoms out as I realize I didn’t even fucking place second.

  Lifting my goggles in disappointment, I lean my head against the side of the pool and look at the rankings.

  That’s when I fucking see it.

  Plain as fucking day, my name in the number-one spot with an American flag proudly displayed next to it.

  “Holy fuck,” I whisper to myself as my hands go to my head in disbelief.

  Once again, the crowd starts chanting my name as my competitors swim to my lane to congratulate me. They clasp my hand and hug me, but all I can do is stare at the screen in disbelief. Utter shock runs through me.

  I finally did it.

  I fucking did it!

  Tearing my cap and goggles off my head, I toss them up on the deck, and use the buoy line to keep me afloat as I grip my eyes while tears fall down my cheeks. Emotions clog my throat as the crowd continues to chant for me. Pulling my hand away, I look up at the stands and take in this moment, committing it to memory, letting the noise drown out everything else around me.